


Valar Dohaeris

by Ghostie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - Martin
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Assassins, F/M, Fighting, Future Fic, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostie/pseuds/Ghostie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the ending of the War of Five Kings, Arya comes across an assassin from her childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift-fic for Eliza. Many thanks to my awesome beta Lavinia!

 

            Arya sat in a straight-backed chair, unmoving, eyes glazed over as she stared at the fire. The only other light in the room came from the window, where the lights of King’s Landing wavered fitfully in the night air. Her right hand was empty, and in her left hand she held a goblet of Arbor gold. It was untouched. Nice as it was, she'd never developed much of a taste for the sweet southern wines.

            Her memory trailed back to sharper, more biting drinks from her years in Braavos. She shook her head, the first movement she'd made in the last hour. It did not do to dwell on the past. It had been ten years, and she wasn't a child anymore.

            Peace had only crept in the last 3 years or so. It had been tenuous at first, but it seemed that the wars and intrigues had finally settled down and she had a place once again. Her thoughts turned to her half brother, or she supposed really her cousin, though she had never been able to think of him that way. A king now, with his Targaryen queen. Arya approved of her. She seemed a woman who knew how to handle herself, unlike so many of the soft noble's daughters she saw nowadays in the court. Peace seemed to breed simpletons, as a rule. Arya's lip curled. If she ever had children, she vowed they'd be made of sterner stuff than the simpering court idiots.

            Not that children were any possibility in the near future, she thought, letting out a small sigh.  Sansa seemed prolific enough for both of them, honestly. Arya had lost track of the names of her million nieces and nephews. There had been another one last month, named after her. She'd told Sansa that was stupid, especially since it was a boy. But Sansa had just laughed and said her husband liked the name Arry. Arya had replied there was a reason she’d left Sandor to die in the woods when she was younger.

            But Arya couldn’t live Sansa’s life, for all their positions at court were in the same vein. She'd never developed her sister's skill at duplicity. There were few enough who saw Sansa as anything but a beautiful lady. Everyone knew who Arya was, and what a visit from her agents would mean. Almost unconsciously, Arya's eyes drifted to the knives lying on the side table. They had already been cleaned, of course. She wasn't sloppy.

            She rose from her chair, leaving the wine untouched on the armrest. Going to the knives, anyone watching would have sworn she exuded nonchalance as she picked up the smallest and absentmindedly stroked its edge.

            She whirled her arm suddenly, flinging the knife behind her, towards a dark figure perched on her windowsill. He caught it.

            She spoke without turning. "Sorrowful men? I admit I'm somewhat honored. I hadn't thought anyone was willing to pay that much."

            The figure said nothing, only laughed quietly. It was a queer lilting sound, and Arya could swear she recognized it.

            She turned to face her visitor. "Not a sorrowful man? Is this a personal matter then?" She squinted, trying to make out his features. He was tall and thin, she could see, but the windowsill’s shadows obscured anything more precise than that.

            No." He laughed again.

            rya cocked her head. A name danced on the outer edges of her head, almost recognizable. She sat down, mentally shrugging. She'd accumulated a lot of enemies over the years. "Well, ser, I admit I don't truly wish to die right now. Care for some wine?" She lifted the untouched Arbor in his direction. "We can talk this over, perhaps come to an agreement."

            he man at the window laughed again, irking her. What was so damn funny? She'd never had any taste for subtlety - that was her sister. She peered into the dark, hoping to recognize him.

            Like a girl, a Man tends to disdain the sweeter wines." As he spoke, he swept off the windowsill and into the room with catlike grace.

            And of course she recognized him. There were names that she carried with her forever, branded into a mind even as peculiar as hers.

            "You again," she whispered.

            He smiled his strange little smile, still the same after all these years. Deft fingers smoothed back a lock of hair, half white and half red.

            "A Man, yes."

            Their eyes locked for a moment. Arya looked away first, and dashed her wine goblet into the fire. The enamel made a satisfying cracking noise.

            "I assume you're here to kill me."

            He said nothing.

            "I left ten years ago, Jaqen,” she snarled. “I told the god my reasons, and he deigned to let me go. You're a decade too late, and I want nothing to do with you or your order."

            He answered simply. "Valar morghulis."

            She wished she had another goblet to throw. By the seven, did the man ever stop grinning? "Could you say something, actually say something?" She dimly noticed she was on the verge of shouting. "I'm not some child, Jaqen!"

            He sighed and let the smile drop from his face. "A Man knows that. It is obvious enough."

            Arya stiffened. What in seven hells did that mean?

            "However -" He examined her knife, cleaning his nails with it. "Someone has taken a contract out on a…” He raised an eyebrow - “woman."

            "And you're here to fill it?" It was odd, she wasn't scared. She felt only numb, with some unfamiliar feeling fretting beneath the surface.

            His dark eyes were unreadable. "A Man volunteered, yes."

            They were both silent for a moment. Then Arya casually palmed one of the blades from the table and spun to slash at Jaqen's neck. He caught her knife on the dagger she had thrown earlier, then grabbed her arm. With a flick of his wrist he hurled her against a bookshelf, which promptly buried her under a pile of tomes. Growling, she swatted loose papers out of the air and leapt up to rush at him again.

            This time their struggle lasted longer. She almost nicked his throat but missed when he kneed her in the stomach. Pushing aside the urge to throw up, she knocked his feet out from under him. He fell against the stone floor, but managed to land a shallow slice on her cheek before she could block him. Wrenching the knife from his hand, Arya picked him off the ground and slammed him into her chair. It broke into kindling; pieces of wood flew everywhere. One sharp splinter cut her hand, distracting her enough that Jaqen managed to land a punch on her jaw. Little flashes of white seared across her vision, and her own knife careened into the air.  Reeling, she spat blood in his face and jumped on top of him, grabbing his discarded knife while he latched onto her own. Arya dug her blade up against his gut just as he managed to snake his own to the vein behind her ear. They both froze.

            "It seems, girl," Jaqen whispered into her hair, "we are at an impasse."

            "My lady? Is everything all right?" The voice of her steward, Nathin Tyrell, carried from beyond her door.

            She looked at Jaqen and surveyed her ruined room. "I'm quite fine," she called back.

            "Are you sure?" The poor boy sounded worried. Arya mentally sighed. He wasn't cut out for this kind of work; she employed him more as a favor to his mother than anything else.

            According to the code they had established, "positively" was the signal for him to call backup. She eyed Jaqen, who stared back serenely. She'd forgotten how bright his eyes were. "Absolutely," she yelled.

            His muffled footsteps retreated down the tower's steps, leaving Arya in what was still an untenable situation. She sighed. Gods, the whole thing was a mess. She had the feeling that her adversary could sit like this for hours if he had to. The idea made her cringe. Careful not to move overmuch, she looked him hard in the face.

            "Jaqen, if you promise not to kill me, could we both put our knives down and you can tell me what the hell you want?" she asked.

            There was a hint of amusement in his voice. "What does a Man get from that?"

            She thought for a moment. "I've got a lovely bottle of aged Tyroshi pear brandy to talk over."

            He chuckled and twisted out from under her, taking both knives with him. "A luxury for what occasion?"

            She stared at him as he threw back both of her knives and sat down on the windowsill. Then she grinned and wiped the blood from her cheek. "Worthy of a meeting between old friends, I suppose."

            His eyes glittered unnervingly as Arya, careful to keep a watch on him, fetched the wine and goblets from her cupboard. She poured an equal measure into each cup, then handed one to the assassin gingerly. He sipped deeply, his eyes never leaving her. "Friends," he murmured.

            She leaned against the wall, unnerved. "I would assume so."

            "And why ever would a girl assume that?"

            Arya scowled at him and began polishing her knives against her tunic vigorously. Never mind it was silk and brand new, Nathin could yell at her about it later, as well as about the state of her room.

            When the knives were mirror-bright, she flung them into the doorframe behind her and turned back to Jaqen. "Because, you idiot, you could've killed me with a blow dart from the other side of the courtyard if you wanted to. The window was open, you’d have had a clear shot. And you didn't. You could've killed me eighteen times in that fight, yet you didn't. So why _are_ you here?"

            He put down his goblet but didn't say anything.

            "Is there even a contract on me?"

            Finally, he nodded. "One of the magisters of Pentos thought a girl imperiled his operations here overmuch."

            She sipped her brandy. "Tameus?" she asked, naming a magister that Sansa's people had caught kidnapping Westerosi fishermen for slavery. Arya had been deciding which of her agents she was going to send after him.

            Jaqen inclined his head.

            "That makes sense. What doesn't make sense" - she raised her eyebrow - "is that you haven't killed me yet."

            Jaqen made a noncommittal noise and traced the enamel on his goblet. Arya resisted the urge to ask him again; it really wasn’t in her interests to annoy him.

            "Is a girl going to marry Ser Gendry?" he finally asked.

            Arya started, spilling some of her brandy. "How...you miserable camel, what does that have to do with anything?"

            Jaqen looked out at the lights of King's Landing behind him, but said nothing.

            "I...no, I'm not, if you really want to know."

            "Mmm."

            "Are you going to kill me?"

            "Mmm."

            The two of them hung in suspended silence for a few moments, occasionally sipping at the brandy. Arya couldn't taste it.

            Finally, Jaqen set his goblet down and stretched. "A Man thinks... a Man thinks that perhaps a girl will not die tonight."

            Arya frowned, puzzled despite herself. "Isn't that sacrilege? If Tameus paid, don't you have to kill me?"

            Jaqen shrugged. "Perhaps the Many Faced One likes a girl too much."

            "Perhaps you like me too much."

            Jaqen looked at her for a moment, still grinning. Then he slipped back out of the window, back into the night.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The winter had been long and deadly, but it seemed even the snows in the north could not last forever. Summer was picking itself up, wounds and all. Arya inhaled the evening air deeply as she stood in the Godswood and marveled at the warmth of the ground beneath her toes. She fancied that she could see the stirrings of fireflies in the distance.

"Arya?"

She turned. Sansa briskly wended her way through the trees, careful to keep her dress hem free of the dirt.

Arya waited until her sister stood beside her, then ducked her head in acknowledgment. "Sansa. How are things?"

Her sister returned the gesture with a smile. "Well enough. There's a new song being sung in the taverns, about a noble lady who prowls the city nightly as a wolf, hungry for vengeance." She chuckled. "The meter is terrible of course."

Arya grinned. "Is that so?"

Sansa nodded. "And in other news, Ser Gendry stopped by the keep yesterday, on his way back to Storm's End."

Arya suddenly became very interested in a leaf she was holding.

Her sister wasn't fooled. "He asked for you. But apparently you spontaneously decided to go inspecting the dockside alehouses."

Arya shrugged. "I was thirsty." She frowned and threw the leaf. "With all due respect, it isn't much of your business, my lady."

Sansa watched the leaf fall to the ground. "Arya, I just worry about you, all alone in that tower-"

"Speaking of which, what are we going to do about Tameus?" Arya blurted. "He's been sending agents after me."

Sansa the worried sister melted away, leaving Lady Clegane, also known as Lady Winter, one of the most feared and powerful figures in all of Westeros. "Really. Any problems with them?"

Arya shook her head. "Nothing I can't handle. But he needs to be removed."

Sansa nodded, her mind already caught up in the workings of the business. "I'll see to it." She wandered away, muttering to herself.

Arya watched her go, and tried very hard to think about her job, and not the myriad of other things clanking around in her head.

She stood in the grove for a while longer, but her heart wasn't in it anymore. Thoughts kept tearing at her reserve, leaving her irritable and nervous. Gendry…she cursed and rubbed her eyes. He was the kind of man one would find in a young Sansa's stories. It made her feel like some cold wight to be cruel to him, but lately, it seemed like that was all she could do. No matter how nice he was she didn't want to marry him, even if his sadness made her want to wince and hit herself.

It was safe to say that her mind was heavily occupied as she walked up the stairs to her rooms. So when a cloaked figure grabbed her from behind and tried to yank her into an alcove, it wasn't too unforgivable that she hadn't seen it coming.

Arya struggled, more a reflex born from years of fighting than a deliberate act. She stopped when she noticed the red and white strands of hair hanging next to her face.

"Jaqen," she whispered back through gritted teeth. "As much of a pleasure as this is, what the hell are you doing here?"

He released his grip enough that she could twist around and look him in the face. Her eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to kill me?"

He sighed, though it seemed more ironic than apologetic. "A man has just saved a girl from sure assassination, and she responds with insults." He tutted.

Arya could feel a headache forming in her temples. "Pardon me ser," she hissed, "but unless my steward is feeling particularly murderous about the property damage you inflicted, that seems unlikely." She pulled herself out of his grip and headed up the stairs.

Somehow, without even looking back, she knew he was smiling. "There are twelve cutthroats in a girl's room. Two are poised beside the door, one is underneath the bed, and three are suspended from the ceiling. The others are standing about, sampling a girl's brandy collection."

Arya stopped. She looked back at Jaqen, who was polishing a dagger on his tunic. She narrowed her eyes. He almost seemed smug. "Why are you telling me this?"

He laughed in the same mocking manner he always did. "A man was paid to kill a girl. If others kill her before he can, a man has rather obviously failed, yes?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I suppose," she muttered, watching his long fingers pull the cloth over the dagger until it shone like ice in the fading light of the hall. "So now that you've warned me, are you leaving?"

Jaqen stopped and sheathed his knife. "A girl can kill twelve men alone, can she? Most impressive."

Arya scowled. "Well then, what am I supposed to do? I can hardly just let them drink all my brandy." She patted the knife that hung at her waist. "And I'm armed."

Jaqen pretended to think for a minute. "Well," he finally said. "A man could perhaps help a girl dispose of them, if she would be obliged to repay him with a favor."

Arya scoffed. "And I'm supposed to trust you?"

Jaqen smiled. "So says a girl who tricked a man into killing more than he owed, long ago."

Arya didn't think that merited a response. She sighed and rubbed her eyes in a futile attempt to end her headache. "I suppose you can help. Just don't stab me or anything."

She could hear Jaqen's trailing laughter as she drew her sword and kicked open the door to her chambers.

The fight was bloody, but short. The moment she entered the room, she noticed the poor knives of the assassins, along with the telling way they gripped them. The men had more in common with alehouse brawlers than herself or Jaqen, she thought as she cleanly sliced through a tendon. She barely blinked at the sharp arc of blood, turning to the next intruder. Throughout the clash, she felt Jaqen's presence behind her, fighting at her back. Occasionally she saw the blur of his knives in the corner of her eye, invariably accompanied by a scream of pain or the gurgle of a dying man.

All too soon it was over. Arya blinked in the sudden silence and stared at the blood that had sprayed across every visible surface. She shook her head. Even after all these years, it still amazed her how much blood the human body could hold. She sheathed her knife, wincing as a twinge ran through her shoulder. She must have pulled a muscle.

"Now what?"

Arya glance back at Jaqen, who was already cleaning his daggers. "I interrogate them."

Jaqen raised his left eyebrow. "A girl must be very blessed, to be able to speak to the dead."

Arya scowled, and wiped the blood away from her mouth. "I left one alive, thank you very much." She sauntered over to one of the bodies huddled in the corner. She kicked the man once, then yanked him up by the hair. He was bleeding from his temple and his nose, which appeared to be broken. Arya narrowed her eyes. Well, good.

"Wake up, we know you're not asleep."

The fighter chuckled without opening his eyes. His teeth, Arya noted, were all filed into sharp points.

She stared at him for a moment. "Alright, Ser," she said. "We can do it that way."

She punched him in the nose.

He screamed and fell back, writhing on the floor. Arya wiped at her bloody mouth again, then slammed her foot into his face. The screams fell away to wracking gasps.

"Perhaps a man is mistaken," Jaqen murmured from behind her. "But the impression a man had was that interrogation generally involved speech."

Arya spoke without looking up from the man thrashing on the ground. "You're very talented at killing, Jaqen." She aimed a savage kick to the man's stomach. "But not at this." She squatted, and grabbed the killer by his bloody neck, ramming his head against the wall. "Not like me, at least."

She waited a moment for the assassin to catch his breath, careful to keep his limbs pinned down.

"So," she began, staring deeply into his eyes. "Would you like to tell me who sent you?"

The man laughed, but stopped when he began to cough up blood. "And if I don't, you'll kill me? Fuck you."

Arya frowned. "Incorrect, Ser. If you tell me, I'll kill you." She picked up her dagger and waved it in front of his face. "Nice, quick, easy. If you don't, I'll throw you out of that window, at which point you will either die quickly, die slowly, or make the acquaintance of a very hungry wolf." She smiled. "It's only three stories, Ser. I'm betting on the last."

The man's eyes darted from her face to the window and back again as he continued coughing blood. "Some Pentoshi," he answered. "All I can tell you."

Arya nodded. Tameus. She paused for a moment, then quickly slit his throat. The body slumped down as the dying man gurgled a last, futile breath.

Arya left the blood alone. It was instinct to clean it, but she had servants now to do that sort of thing. Besides, she was tired. Not just tired, but weary, the sort of fatigue that condenses in the marrow of one's bones and the back of one's eyelids. She collapsed into her chair, shook her head and sloshed some wine into two glasses. She held one out for Jaqen without looking up. Mercifully, he picked it up before her arm began to ache with the strain of movement. She dully registered the clunk of it set down on the table.

"You could probably kill me now, you know," she said, closing her eyes.

"Mmmm." He purred from behind her. "A man would've." He tsked and laid a palm on her shoulder. "A girl is hurt."

She shivered as she felt his warm fingers touch her shoulders. "Just a pulled muscle. What do you mean, you would have?"

Jaqen didn't remove his hands. "A man would've killed a girl. But others have already tried tonight," He began to slowly massage her neck. "And a man would hate to be unoriginal."

Arya sputtered, even as her tired body leaned into his hands. "Bastard," she mumbled crossly.

The only response was his musical laughter.

They sat in companionable silence for a time. Arya felt her alertness trail back in thin tendrils, even as she became increasingly aware of Jaqen's fingers kneading at her back.

"Jaqen," she said suddenly, desperate to distract herself. "What did you want? As a favor, I mean."

His hands kept moving as he answered. "Permission to kill a girl, of course."

Arya sprang up, horrified. "What? No!"

Jaqen sighed deeply, but kept a grip on her shoulders. "Perhaps not, then. A girl could return to the order?"

Arya yanked his hands away. "No."

"The life of the King?"

"Damn you, no!"

"The Queen?"

"Again, no!"

"Ser Gendry?"

"No!"

"A kiss?"

"N-wait, what?" She stared at him, and he grinned back. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words were muted when Jaqen buried his hand in his hair and pulled her head against his. His lips were hot, with faint traces of cinnamon and brandy. Arya supposed the politic thing to do was protest, but even as the thought crossed her mind she leaned into his arms. All too quickly, Jaqen pulled away.

"Oops," he whispered in her ear. He gently released her hair and sauntered to the window. Perched on the sill, he glanced back at her and waved. "Farewell for now, Lady Stark."

Arya blinked and waved slightly as he vanished into the dark. He was always doing that, she thought. Did he have something against doors?

She dropped back into her chair and quaffed the entire goblet of wine. After pausing for a moment, she fetched Jaqen's and drank that too. The alcohol burned the inside of her throat going down, but she almost didn't mind.

"Arya, you idiot," she murmured to herself. "This is without a doubt one of the most suicidal, most idiotic, most downright stupid things you've done in years."

She could almost hear him chuckling in the back of her head.

"Stupid," she whispered again, absentmindedly brushing her fingers against her lower lip, like a memory.


End file.
